


sunagashi

by bastigod



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Edo Period, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, Kitsune, M/M, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29014113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastigod/pseuds/bastigod
Summary: The kitsune was gone — vanished in a lick of flame.A thick haze settled over Osamu’s mind, eyes suddenly heavy and body fatigued.What a strange dream.When an unknown entity attacks Osamu's town, assistance comes in an unexpected way.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 10
Kudos: 156
Collections: SunaOsa, SunaOsa Valentine's Exchange





	sunagashi

**Author's Note:**

> 砂流 (sunagashi. lit. 'flowing sand')  
> 1\. marks in a temper line that resemble brushed sand
> 
> Written for the Sunaosa Exchange for [Mon](https://twitter.com/f1reflyyyyy)~

"Miya-san!"

Osamu's head pounded. 

Sleep came in short supply these days. 

He cracked open his eyes to see a retainer, Ginjima-san — based on the silver streaking through the man's mousey brown hair. One of his father's men, a retired samurai wasting his time in Osamu's company.

"My lord, there's been another attack."

Osamu leaned up, letting his blanket fall from his chest. He blinked. Another one. This was hardly a surprise anymore.

"Where?"

Ginjima-san nodded. "The Riseki farm."

"Any casualties?" He hated the way his voice sounded, thick with sleep and far more casual than the situation required. Deserved, rather.

"They lost two cows 'n' an ox." Ginjima-san clutched at his kimono as he kneeled beside Osamu's futon, white knuckled. "The Riseki boy…"

Osamu felt his breath catch in his throat.

"He tried to fight. He's alive, but his situation is critical." Ginjima-san's voice shook. A surprising weakness shown by the former warrior. Osamu supposed becoming a family man did that to a person. His son, Hitoshi, was a friend of Riseki Heisuke. 

"Get him to Akagi-sama's home immediately. Insist he get the utmost care." Osamu paused to point to his calligraphy set. Ginjima-san passed it to him. A flick of kanji, a pour of wax, the firm press of his seal. Ginjima-san bowed his head as Osamu handed him the parchment. "Has the danger passed?"

Ginjima-san nodded. "After Heisu- Riseki-kun was attacked, the assailant left."

Osamu sighed. Every single attack that occurred over the last fortnight had ended before anyone had a chance to see the perpetrator. Sadly, not before damage had been done. Slaughtered farm animals, destroyed crops, and two boys had lost their lives. They were running out of ideas.

“Station men at each farmhouse to protect them for the rest of tonight. Tomorrow, move the farmers into the town proper.” 

Ginjima-san nodded. “We should talk to yer father. He can help.”

Osamu wasn’t too keen on the idea of inviting the Miya Clan’s most elite samurai to stalk his normally peaceful town. Nor Atsumu coming to lord over him, acting as if his twenty minutes of seniority made him a god.

"We will handle this alone."

"Very well, Miya-san." The retainer's voice was uncertain. It was only a matter of time before one of his father's men told their leader. Before Osamu lost his freedom, his town.

"In the mornin', we'll hold a meetin' and solve this problem." Osamu said. "Is that all?"

"That's all." Ginjima-san rose and bowed at the waist. "Sleep well, my lord." 

The door slid shut with a muffled thunk and Osamu exhaled, letting his spine relax and his shoulders slouch. He rubbed at his eyes, praying to the gods he'd be whisked back away to sleep soon.

As they drifted shut, a sudden movement startled him. His eyes trained on the carved cabinet across from his futon. The straight edge of the cabinet was interrupted by solid black — a pair of legs crossed hanging down. Above, a white oval barely visible in the candlelight. A mask.

Osamu's heart raced as he twisted, desperate to grab the blade beneath his pillow. Gone.

"Looking for this?" The masked person leapt off the cabinet, feet not making a sound as he hit the tatami floor. He rolled his wrist, Osamu's dagger twirling around in his fingers.

Osamu felt a lump surge into his throat as the masked person approached. He shifted — trying to stand up.

His movement was halted by the blade sailing past his head, close enough to send a shiver down his spine. It embedded in the shoji screen behind him with a loud crinkle. 

The masked person flicked his hands and suddenly Osamu felt weighed down. His heart raced as he attempted to move — body still and tight. Trapped.

Wait.

The masked person kneeled beside him, hands folded in his lap. The fox face smiled at him mockingly, painted eyes curved into red-lined crescents. 

Osamu's eyes followed the curve of the mask and widened. The dark ears pointed at the peak of the mask were not carved and painted. Rather, organic and covered in fur. And tucked beside the stranger's kneeled legs were two white-tipped tails.

A kitsune.

He tried and failed to voice this discovery — mouth sealed shut by magic.

"Ah." The kitsune said. He chuckled before dragging a finger across the seam of Osamu's lips.

"H-how are ya here?" Osamu panted, struggling against the magic bindings. "Kitsune c-can't come in uninvited."

"Maybe so." The kitsune clicked his tongue. "But is this not the lord's manor? A place of sanctuary for all townsfolk?"

"What?"

"You heard me correctly." The kitsune's voice was laced with humor. "I am a resident of this town, I do not need permission."

Before his passing, Osamu's uncle had kept records of every family in the town. He only remembered a few key details off the top of his head, but a kitsune villager would hardly be something forgettable.

"Is it you then?" Osamu spoke through clenched teeth.

The kitsune tilted his head. "I just told you I live here. Why the fuck…"

Osamu stared at the white fox mask. At the blades strapped to the kitsune’s thighs. At his own legs bound to the futon. At the knife embedded in the shoji behind him. Then back to the curved painted eyes.

“...” The kitsune’s hands twitched in his lap. “Okay. Fair enough.”

His long fingers ran over a sheath before withdrawing one of the blades — a tanto with a scarlet wrapped hilt. He admired it for a long time, silently pressing the flat of the blade against his palm. “Miya-san.” He said finally, before extending his arm. The sharp edge of the blade rested against Osamu’s jugular — close enough to feel but not slice. “If I wanted to attack this town, wouldn’t it be simpler to just… cut off the head of the wolf?”

Osamu remained silent. The kitsune had a point.

“Clearly, I am capable of doing so.” The kitsune withdrew the blade from Osamu’s neck, flipped it theatrically, and placed it on the futon. “No. I’m here because I want to help.”

“Ya could start by lettin’ me go.” Osamu said with a bitter smile. 

“That’s the thing.” The kitsune leaned forward, mask a hair's breadth away from Osamu’s face. “Where’s my guarantee you won’t grab this…” The kitsune ran a forefinger down the blade. “And slit my throat?”

“I take it ya won’t trust my word as yer lord?”

“Of course not.” Osamu imagined a sharp toothed smile beneath the kitsune’s impassive mask. “You’re a good man, Miya-san. A kind man. But I am not ignorant in the ways of humans. Your kind will never trust mine, so we shall never trust yours.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Osamu knew what was coming. A bargain. A boon. An offer he would be foolish to refuse, but foolish to accept. 

"A proposition."

"I'm listenin'." 

“In exchange for my assistance, you will promise no harm done by mortal hands will befall me.” The kitsune leaned back, hands folding in his lap once more. 

“And what are the terms?”

“An eye for an eye.” The kitsune said, voice darkening. “What happens to me shall be done to you.”

Osamu raised an eyebrow. “And if ya die? Who shall claim my life in yer stead?”

“You never listened to him, did you?” A wave of confusion hit him before he realized what the kitsune spoke about. The Miya Clan were men of war — raising and training elite samurai and following honor codes until their last breath. Osamu’s father was well renowned throughout all of San’yodo for his military acumen, and Atsumu was on his way to becoming a worthy successor. 

Their uncle, however, was a man of letters. Not interested in following in his own twin’s path, Uncle Isao took ownership of their ancestral manor and fashioned it into the thriving town it was today — Inarizaki. His great achievement was the scholar’s house — storing thousands of books and teaching the locals to read and write.

Before his passing, he had taken Osamu under his wing. Taught him values beyond the military code. Stories and tales of people rather than the wars they wage — lessons his own father was never quite willing to provide. It was around Uncle Isao’s campfire where Osamu learned of their cultural legends — all sorts of magical birds and beasts that roamed their forests. 

A mere fantasy. Whimsy to entertain children. Horror to teach important lessons about survival. Myths to explain how the world works in magical ways.

That is, until a kitsune ended up in his sleeping quarters.

“Inari-sama shall.” The kitsune spoke. “Simple as that.”

Osamu didn’t need any more explanation. Retribution from the gods was the last thing his town needed. “What if I do not agree to yer proposition?”

“How fun do you think it would be to be in that position until the day you die?” The kitsune’s voice was thick with sarcastic venom. “Which, for the record, wouldn’t be very long. Starvation and dehydration weakening your body, shortness of breath as your rib cage struggles to expand, the slow build up of excre—”

“Stop. Stop. I get it.” Osamu groaned. “I agree to yer terms.” 

“Excellent.” The kitsune snapped his fingers, summoning forth a burst of crimson foxfire with licks of lightning blue. Osamu held his breath as the kitsune pressed his hand to his chest. Despite the telltale signs of raging heat in the flame, the feeling was more akin to sitting beside a bonfire — gentle warmth caressing his skin, his lungs, his heart. 

As the kitsune withdrew his hand from his chest, Osamu felt his body release — the pressure keeping him bound to the futon lifting. He sucked in several deep breaths, letting his lungs fully contract. Fingers regained feeling. An itch. To grab the tanto laid beside him.

“Do ya have a name?” Osamu said, giving in to his desire to lift the blade. The scarlet hilt was soft from use, the metal gleaming a bizarre dark grey with a distinctive wavy hamon. It was familiar, in a way he couldn’t recall. In the corner of his eye, the kitsune was still.

“Rei.” He said.

“Guessin’ that ain’t yer real name.” Osamu glanced at him, handing the tanto back.

Rei chuckled, grasping the blade and sliding it back into its sheath. “Of course not. Real names are power.”

“Yet ya know mine.” Osamu relaxed, leaning back against the wall.

Rei flicked his wrist, summoning another flash of foxfire. It morphed into two characters — the ten strokes of Miya, the eight of Osamu. His fingers snapped shut, smoke filtering through the cracks. “It was not willingly given to me.” The mask tilted in his direction. “I hold no power over you.”

“So you say.” Osamu watched the kitsune rise from his kneel. “Didn’t feel that way a couple minutes ago.”

Rei bowed at the waist, twin tails swinging from the motion. He straightened, brushed off the fabric clinging to his abdomen, and placed his hands on his hips. “For the record, Miya-san, I wouldn’t have hurt you.” He turned, sparing Osamu a final masked glance. “I like you too much.”

Osamu opened his mouth to respond, but the kitsune was gone — vanished in a lick of flame.

A thick haze settled over Osamu’s mind, eyes suddenly heavy and body fatigued.

What a strange dream.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Osamu pinched the bridge of his nose as his retainers vacated the meeting house. It'd been a complete waste of his time. Just a bunch of old men bickering and hand-wringing for several hours.

They were no closer to stopping the attacks than they'd been a fortnight ago. 

"Have ya considered the attacks may be supernatural in origin?" Osamu had dared to ask. Ginjima-san raised his eyebrows. Kosaku-san outright laughed. Even his uncle's men brushed the idea off. 

They all believed in the gods. Inarizaki had been blessed with Lord Inari's name. They prayed for bountiful harvests and gentle storms. Offerings were left at every shrine — from the large one run by the Ojiro family to the tiny ones in every home.

But the actual _idea_ of the gods interfering with their lives had become unpopular. These were men of strategy, of warfare. Ghosts, goblins, gods — there was no room for the unknown, the unexpected, the unhuman in strategy.

Perhaps it would be wise for Osamu to listen to his elders. He is nothing but an ignorant child they reluctantly show respect to.

Osamu couldn't help but think of his dream. The cold blade against his throat felt so tangible, so real. Like he could still feel the tingle of metal dancing along his skin. Like the kitsune had been in his bedroom.

No, it couldn't be true.

After the last of his retainers left, he rose himself. The day was still early and there was work to do. But not before breakfast.

The walk from the meeting house to the main street of Inarizaki was brief. Food stalls and shops lined the pathway, bursting with everything from vegetables and bolts of cloth to jewelry and pottery. Choruses of polite greetings and 'my lords' came as he passed.

When he first visited this town as a child, he dreamed of owning one of the food stalls. Forming onigiri to hawk to his neighbors. Seeing the smiles on faces as they sank their teeth into the rice.

Perhaps someday.

After exchanging some coins for a bamboo leaf-wrapped bundle of onigiri, he continued his trek down the dirt path towards his destination. 

He smiled to himself as he heard the telltale clinking of metal and the roar of a lit forge. 

The Inarizaki smithy was impressive, powered by a water wheel fed by the river, and designed to craft all sorts of metalworks. From tools and rings to spears and blades. Samurai subservient to the Miya Clan paid a pretty penny for Inarizaki-made weapons.

“Miya-san.” A familiar voice — Osamu’s favorite in the world, though he’d hardly admit it.

Suna stood with his arms crossed over his chest — the sleeves of his kosode pulled back by ties to reveal lithe, but strong forearms. Next to him were two apprentices — boys no older than ten — clanging away at shapeless blobs of iron. 

“Suna.” Osamu shot back.

“Now, how many times do I gotta tell ya to call me Rintarou?” Suna’s hands shifted to his hips, lips scowling. “Suna’s my father.”

Osamu grinned. “And how many times do I gotta tell ya to call me Osamu?”

A pause. Then Suna laughed. 

“Boys.” Suna’s hands found the apprentices’ shoulders. “Let’s take a break. Yer both workin’ so hard.”

They both beam up at him, barking out a matching chorus of “Yes, Suna-sensei! Thank you, Suna-sensei!” They bow before scampering out the back door of the smithy.

“‘Sensei?’ How’d ya get saddled with that one?” Osamu laughed. Suna was notoriously terrible with children. Babies would take one look at him and cry until their mothers soothed them. Animals were the exception, however. It seemed every year, at least one cat or fox decided that beneath Suna’s veranda was the perfect place to give birth. He’d seen Suna with a blood stained kimono and an armful of tiny writhing kits more than once.

“Father’s in the city right now.” Suna sighed, untying his tasuki to let his sleeves fall free. “Makin’ a new sword for yer brother, actually. So until he gets back, I gotta babysit the apprentices.”

“I’m sure it ain’t all bad.” Osamu offered. “Yer a master bladesmith yerself, they’re prob’ly thrilled to be learnin’ from ya.”

“Please.” Suna rolled his eyes. “I can hardly compare to my father.”

Osamu knew where this conversation was going. A never-ending stream of cyclical cynicism from Suna where he refused to accept a well-deserved compliment. Might as well nip it in the bud here and now.

“Hey, Rin. Ya hungry?” He raised the leaf bundle and watched as Suna’s expression shifted from indifference to excitement. 

They reclined along the riverbank, taking turns plucking rice balls from the unwrapped bundle. Suna leaned backwards until his back was flush with the earth. Fluffy brown hair intermingled with blades of grass. Golden-green eyes reflected the sunlight like a bronze mirror. He’s beautiful.

“I take it the meetin’ didn’t go well.” He said, eyes focused on the sky.

Osamu sighed. “What gave it away?”

Suna rolled onto his side, locks of hair falling into his face. “Ya only ever feed me when yer in a bad mood.”

_Seein’ ya smile makes me feel better._

“They’re movin’ the farmers into town to avoid anyone else gettin’ hurt.” Osamu leaned until he was at eye level with Suna. “But that won’t stop the attacks.”

Suna frowned, reaching across the distance to brush hair out of Osamu’s eyes. Fingertips danced across his skin and a lump bubbled in his throat. 

"Let's go for a walk." Suna whispered. "Clear yer head."

He sought out Suna for his company frequently despite their class differences. The other young men of the town were far too straight-laced or far too wild. Suna was neither. He was calm and knew how to relax. Industrious yet slacked off and had fun when needed. Silence between them was comfortable — neither needing to fill it with pointless small talk.

Not to mention Suna was beautiful. Muscular from a life of hard work but at the same time lithe and flexible. Soft dark brown hair that shimmered with tinges of copper in the sunlight. Narrow eyes the color of fine jade jewelry and outlined with charcoal and safflower red. 

He could love Suna. Kiss in the lord’s manor, not caring if his ancestors or the gods themselves watched hands slip under kimonos and lips bruise collarbones. Exhale soft cries from his throat as Suna’s fingers and mouth wandered the planes of his body.

But he can’t.

Even if Suna felt the same way. 

“Okay.” Osamu replied, tearing his eyes away from Suna’s full lips. 

Suna was far more agile than himself, near-effortlessly finding his footing before hauling Osamu up by the forearm. “Yer heavy.” A grin, sharp and crooked. “What’re’ya servants feedin’ ya? Rocks?”

“Ha ha.” Osamu brushed the back of his kimono. “Ya sure blacksmithy’s yer callin’? Ya should go to Osaka ‘n’ be a street comedian.”

Suna laughed, obviously fake but light-hearted. “Might be nice. Heard the pay’s decent. Just enough to pay for a night at the brothel, a little food in yer belly ‘n’ sake in yer cup. Wanna join me?” 

Osamu followed Suna as they hopped across the river, rock to rock. “What? At the brothel?”

Suna hummed. “If tha’s what yer into.”

That was another talent of Suna's. He had this way with words that always managed to send heat coursing through Osamu's bloodstream. Hopefully the summer sun was enough to excuse the flush surely burning along his ears and neck.

"So." Suna said after a long bout of silence. They'd entered the patch of woods behind the smithy — full of gorgeous blood red maple trees used to fuel the forge. The shelter of shade was a relief to the sweat dripping down Osamu's back. "What are yer theories?"

This probably wasn't information he should be sharing with an artisan's son — even one as respected as the Suna family. But what was Rintarou going to do? Rally the other artisan and merchant boys together? He hardly had the motivation to rally together friends for a night of drinking, much less a revolution.

"Yer gonna think I'm crazy." Osamu admitted.

"Try me."

He sighed. "I think it's supernatural in origin. No one has seen the attackers, y'know?"

Suna tilted his head in thought. "Why would I think yer crazy?"

"Ya don't find an invisible monster crazy?" Osamu raised his brows.

"We've been taught 'bout monsters all our lives." Suna carefully pushed aside a dead bit of bush, so Osamu could walk through safely. "No one knows what is actually out there."

"My men were quick to laugh at me."

Suna smiled, strained, not quite reaching his eyes. "Lemme let ya in on a lil secret, Osamu. 'Yer' men are yer uncle's — may his spirit be at peace — and yer father's. They don't respect ya."

"Suna—" He started to chastise his friend before stopping himself. It was inappropriate for Suna to be speaking to his lord like this, but it's the truth. "What should I do?"

Suna's hand snaked along his shoulder blades before resting against his chest, arm wrapped around his upper body. His fingertips brushed against the silk of his kimono. His jade eyes were serious as they met Osamu's. "Ya have two options. Convince them or fight this problem head on yerself."

"How am I supposed to fight a monster I cannot see?"

Suna shrugged, a grin falling easy on his lips. Osamu wanted to kiss him. Stop that. "Hell if I know. All I'm good at fightin' is rice straw ‘n’ bamboo."

He shouldn’t. Testing swords was something only samurai should do — to show off their finesse and the quality of the blade as they slice through targets and the arms of criminals. But Osamu doubted anyone was willing to argue with a man with a sharp fine-crafted sword in his hand, no matter his social status or perceived skill. 

Osamu had only seen Suna testing blades once — hidden safely in the courtyard of the Suna home. His father had invited Osamu for tea shortly after he took control of Inarizaki. A polite gesture from a well-respected artisan to their new lord. 

As they walked past the threshold of the courtyard, Osamu couldn’t help but be transfixed by the sight. Lithe arms slicing with two tantos at once. The subtle rippling of shoulder muscles in Suna’s exposed back. A long, clinical pause as the tatami tumbled to the ground.

“Somehow, I don’t believe that.” 

Suna paused for a long moment — a single eyebrow raised incredulously — before laughing. Saying nothing more, he slid his arm off Osamu's shoulder and led the way further into the woods. 

Silence settled again, letting Osamu appreciate the little things. The twitter of birds in the branches. The crunch of underbrush beneath their sandals. The gentle brush of his silk sleeve against Suna's cotton. 

The woods opened up to a large clearing. If he had grown up in Inarizaki instead of in Himeji, he imagined himself and Atsumu playing here as children. Pretend Samurai hitting each other with sticks and wrestling in the grass.

"This place is beautiful." Osamu couldn't help but exhale. 

Suna's eyes curved in genuine joy, smile scrunching his cheeks in a terribly endearing way. He dropped to the ground, leaning back on his hands. He caught Osamu’s eye and gestured with his chin. "Isn't it? I come here often to escape my troubles."

“Troubles? Of what sort?” Osamu joined him on the grass — still slightly damp with dew. “Anythin’ I can do to help?”

Suna’s entire upper body shifted as he exhaled. His head met Osamu’s shoulder, soft hair brushing against his jaw. “It’s no matter worthy of yer concern, my lord.”

“‘ _My lord_.’” Osamu scrunched his nose in disgust. “Must be really serious then.”

Suna laughed, the vibration echoing through Osamu’s shoulders. “It’s okay, Osamu. Me ‘n’ my father just don’t get on much anymore now that I’m grown.”

He let his arm snake over Suna’s shoulders and bury into brown locks. Fingers pulled gently through hair, detangling snarls and knots as he encountered them. In the far reaches of his vision, he could see Suna’s eyes had drifted shut. “Does he hurt ya?”

“No, no. Nothin’ of the sort.” Suna laughed. “Since my sister was born, I’ve just been an employee ‘stead of a son.”

“Why have ya never—”

“It doesn’t matter. Promise.” Suna hummed as Osamu’s nails raked along his scalp. “Ya have the attacks to worry about before ya dwell too hard on family squabbles.”

Osamu sighed. He was still no closer to a solution. What would tonight bring? The farmers were being moved into the town, but would that be enough?

Suna's face shifted against his shoulder, eyes gleaming with something Osamu didn't recognize. "Relax your mind." A whisper, a brush of fingertips on his forehead. "There's still a long day ahead of you. Let the storm wait."

He felt his eyes drift closed as the whispering became incomprehensible. Sleep claimed him swiftly, whisking him to a land of Suna's voice — as honeyed as it was sharp.

* * *

“Can I help ya find anythin’?” 

Osamu nearly startled. He’d forgotten that he wasn’t alone and that the stoic fox-faced Oomimi was kneeling in the corner, flipping the folds of an orihon book. 

He came to the scholar’s house after waking up from his nap. Suna encouraged him to go with the hope that Osamu could find some sort of information. He’d flitted from shelf to shelf poking and prodding at books half-heartedly, not quite finding what he was looking for.

“Well…”

But he also wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for in the first place.

“Perhaps a book on yokai.” Osamu said, watching Oomimi’s thin black brows raise. “Or kitsune.”

“Curious topic, Miya-san” Oomimi folded his book closed and set it on the low table gently. He was a Himeji boy like Osamu. Born and raised in the castle town and brought to Inarizaki to apprentice under the old master of the scholar’s house. “Why do ya ask?”

Osamu made a show of flipping open a book from the nearest shelf, feigning brief interest in traditional medicine. “Just needin’ somethin’ to read. What better than the stories of our ancestors?”

“I could think of a few things.” Oomimi smiled, though his eyes remained solemn. “While it’s important to remember the past, the future is upon us. I have books from Osaka and Kyoto on far more fascinating topics.” He paused, before rising and giving Osamu a polite bow. “Ah. Apologies for my rude tone, my lord.”

Osamu offered a smile as Oomimi straightened. “No need, Ren. I know yer passionate about yer studies. I would be happy to hear about these books in the future. But for now…”

“Of course.”

Oomimi led him to a shelf he swore he’d perused already and showed him three books. Two were tales of yokai centered on Harima and San’yodo. The other was a detailed list of supposed kitsune encounters and possessions from the region.

“Thank ya, Ren.”

Oomimi set the books on the low table and gestured to the cushion before it. He bowed again. “Do ya need anythin’ else, Miya-san?”

“This is good for now.”

“Very well. If it’s alright with you, I would like to excuse myself. Kita-kun invited me and Ojiro-kun for tea this afternoon.”

Osamu smiled at the thought of a scholar, a priest, and a tea farmer as close friends. Though, perhaps considerably less odd than a lord and a blacksmith. Inarizaki was a strange place and Osamu was quite alright with that.

“I’ll be fine here. Enjoy yerself.”

Oomimi departed and he exhaled as the shoji door slid shut. He turned, eager to scour through the books left on the table. 

“Interesting books.”

Kneeling before the table was Rei, flipping through the book about kitsune. He’d swapped the sleeveless top and hakama for a black silk kimono — an outfit far more reminiscent of those of the noblewomen of Osaka. Embroidered pine trees — also in black — were matte against the faint sheen of silk while vibrant white cranes flew along the bottom and sleeves.

So it wasn’t a dream.

“Rei.”

One of the kitsune’s ears flicked as the mask tilted Osamu’s way. “Miya-san.”

“Ya look beautiful.” Osamu kneeled across the table, opening one of the yokai books.

“I do, don’t I?” He imagined a smile across Rei’s face. “The kimono was a gift.”

“It looks quite expensive.”

“Well, I make friends in high places. Like you.” Rei ran his fingers gently over the sleeve.

“Is that what we are?” Osamu leaned his head on his fist, watching the kitsune flick non-existent specks off the fabric. 

“Ah, Miya-san.” Rei’s ears drooped, settling back against his dark hair. It looked familiar, though Osamu couldn’t place why. “You wound me.”

“Ya bound me to my futon and threatened me. Didja do that to the person who gave you that?”

Osamu’s grin was cut short by Rei cackling. “Actually, I did. A much different scenario, however. He was bound by rope, not by magic. And it wasn’t _his_ futon, per say.”

“D...dare I ask about the threatenin’ part?” Osamu didn’t like where this story was headed.

“Now that’s just standard pillow talk, love.” Rei slid the book about kitsune across the table, opened up to a page telling an account of a man marrying a woman only for her to disappear.

“I see.” Osamu skimmed the story. It claimed the woman was a kitsune, a fox-wife who vanished after the birth of their child. Into the night and gone forever. Osamu figured she was a normal human woman, suddenly thrust into motherhood — a responsibility she couldn’t handle. “Do ya see this benefactor often?”

“Jealous, are we?” Rei plucked the book Oomimi had been reading off the table and reclined further. “While Rei-chan is this lord’s favorite prostitute in all of Osaka, I only go up there when I’m in dire need of money. It’s easy work, and he likes the fleeting sense of rarity.”

Osamu wasn’t sure what to say, but he felt an uncomfortable heat bite at his ears and neck. It must’ve been obvious to Rei, as the kitsune laughed softly.

“Ooh, you’re scandalized. How adorable, Miya-san. I don’t sleep with him, he merely thinks I do.” Rei flicked his finger and Osamu’s book fluttered to another page. There was an illustration of a woman surrounded by floating spheres of foxfire. “I get to sit back and count my clients’ coins while an illusion does the work for me.”

“Why are ya here?” 

Rei theatrically flipped the page of the book he held, head tilting as if something caught his attention. “I offered my help, did I not? I’m here to help.”

“Are ya?” Osamu closed the kitsune book. “Cause to me it looks like yer lazin’ about in yer brothel clothes pretendin’ to read a book.”

Rei straightened in an instant, posture ramrod. “You think I wear this to the brothel? Have you ever tried washing stains out of silk?” He leaned forward, arms folded against the table.

Osamu groaned, flipping open one of the yokai books. He wasn’t going to dignify that question with a response. In his periphery, he could see the kitsune’s posture slump again, masked chin resting on his forearms. He imagined a pout paired with a glower. 

“You’re not going to find what you’re looking for in that book, Miya-san.” The kitsune tapped his fingers on the table, clacking where the curve of his nails hit the surface.

His eyes remained fixed on the kanji written on the page. “And what exactly am I lookin’ for, Rei-chan?” Teeth clacked as he bit out the final syllable.

Rei scoffed. “We’ll get to that, but first let me explain something.”

Osamu closed the book and met the curved eyes of the kitsune’s mask.

“Those tales were written in the old times, when the gods still walked the earth alongside man. At the time, it was when man’s belief in them was the strongest. It is easier to understand what you can see after all. What you and your peers shrug off as fanciful legends are watered down versions of the truth.” Rei pushed himself up, giving Osamu a full view of the gorgeous kimono.

“And why—”

“Let me finish, Miya-san.” Rei bowed his head slightly. “Things are not the same now. During the wars of your ancestors, the faith weakened. The gods retreated to the heavens to let the lords bicker and ravage the land as the shrines and temples stood empty. Though we now live in a time of peace, spirits and monsters remain hidden from human sight.”

Rei glided to his side of the table and kneeled down next to him, the fine silk brushing against the skin of Osamu’s forearm. “And now the world continues to change. But you know this. You see it every day.”

Osamu stole a careful look at the kitsune seated next to him. The mask faced forward, the red fabric ties tightly fastened to the back of his head. Sudden realization dawned — Rei didn't have human ears to prevent the ties from slipping.

“Do you trust me?” Rei tilted his head, voice heavy.

Osamu averted his eyes, guilty at his answer. "No. It'd be easier if I knew who ya were."

"I understand." Rei was still, showing no reaction at Osamu's admission. "But I can't tell. So you'll have to try."

Rei has had more than one opportunity to slit his throat and hasn't. Perhaps that was enough to put his faith in the kitsune. "Okay."

Rei laid his hand on the table, palm up. He curled his fingers before snapping them open. Licks of foxfire danced along his fingertips. He turned to face Osamu, ears slightly drooped. "This won't hurt. I promise."

Osamu nodded, letting his eyes drift close as the bonfire warmth touched his forehead. The fingertips trailed down his face, two traveling through the center of his eyelids before pulling away at his cheekbones.

"You can open your eyes now." Rei whispered. "Do not be alarmed."

Osamu blinked open his eyes to see he and Rei weren't alone in the scholar's house. Two strangers sat on the other side of the room. One was a cow headed woman in a gorgeous red kimono and the other, a tiny girl. 

The woman was reclining, head propped against her fist as she read a novel. She met his eye for a brief moment and smiled, her round and innocent brown eyes curving into gentle crescents. He bowed his head politely and decided not to let his gaze linger too long.

The tiny girl sat next to her, rolling around a woven temari and giggling. As if on cue, the girl looked up. A grin overtook her entire face, and she tugged on the cow woman’s kimono. “Obahan! Obahan! I think he can see us! Heya Otchan!”

“Ah, hello.” Osamu said, nervously glancing back at Rei.

“Ume-chan, be gentle with Miya-san.” Rei’s hand met Osamu’s lower back, an intended reassurance that sent a shiver up his spine. “He’s never seen yokai before.”

“Oh wow!” The little girl’s eyes grew as large as saucers. “I’m Ume! Like plums!” She excitedly pointed at the plum blossoms on her kimono. “I live with Mimi-chan ‘n’ he feeds me even though he’s a lil scary ‘n’ thinks I’m a cat but tha’s okay!”

“Ume-chan is a zashiki warashi.” Rei whispered in Osamu’s ear. He was familiar with stories of the zashiki warashi. Tales of footprints on ceilings and disembodied giggles and toys rattling. They were supposedly good luck.

“I’m just passing through.” The cow woman said, her voice sleepy as she flipped the page of her novel. “Heading to Hyogo Port to visit some friends.”

“Wait!” Ume dropped her temari. “Fox-chaaaaan! Ya look so pretty! Where’d ya get that kimono?”

“Maybe I’ll explain it to you when you’re older, Ume-chan.” Rei laughed.

“But I’m older than you!” She stuck her tongue out before turning back to the cow woman with a huff.

“Don’t mind her. Or any of the town yokai for that matter.” Rei shifted away from Osamu, giving him some space to breathe finally. The kitsune’s hand still lingered at his lower back. “They’re used to ignoring humans, so don’t make eye contact with them and they’ll remain unaware of your sight.” 

“Rei.” Osamu spoke softly. “What’s attackin’ my town?”

The kitsune nodded, ears twitching. “I was just getting to that. A group of demons have been camped in the woods since before the attacks began. It’s only a handful, three or four at the most. But that’s enough to make our farmers’ lives hell.”

“How am I s’posed to stop ‘em?”

“We’ll fight them. Together.” Rei’s hand shifted to squeeze his elbow. “Meet me by the river at sundown. Be ready for a fight.”

“I underst—” Osamu was halted by Rei disappearing in a sudden flash of foxfire, only the faint scent of woodsmoke left in his wake.

“Ooh.” Ume giggled. “Obachan, I think Fox-chan has a crush.”

* * *

"Miya-san."

Osamu barely heard the soft hiss of Rei's voice over the babble of the river. He glanced up to see the kitsune perched on a tree branch, his two tails dangling. He’d lost the kimono, replaced by the same sleeveless black get-up he wore the night before. 

“It’s good to see you.” Rei leapt down, landing on his feet gracefully. The mask tilted up and down as he took in Osamu’s appearance. “Though, not a fan of this.”

Osamu’s fingers found the hilt of his katana, nails picking at the edges of the black silk. He’d had the sword for years now, but rarely used it. “Ya should know by now I ain’t gonna hurt ya.” 

“It’s not that.” A soft chuckle. “You look like a samurai. Doesn’t suit you.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d donned armor. Perhaps sparring with Atsumu, hands clutching wooden practice swords as the noble ladies of Himeji swooned. He’d never been too terribly interested in their gaze or in perfecting his skills the same way his brother was. And all the same, the domaru — laced in the black and burgundy of Clan Miya — suited Atsumu far more than it did him.

“I agree.” Osamu released his hand from the katana’s hilt. 

“Come, let’s go.” He heard the smile in Rei’s voice. “They are not far from here. Be as quiet as possible.”

Osamu took care to tread lightly as they crept through the woods, following Rei’s confident pace. It was distracting — watching the kitsune walk. Dark ears twitched at minor sounds Osamu barely heard and his tails swung back and forth with every step.

“Here.” Rei hissed.

Ahead, Osamu could see a vibrant blue glow flickering through the trees. His heart leapt to his throat as a shadowed figure passed in front of the lights. Two distinct horns rose from its forehead.

A touch to his hand. A shiver ran down his spine, startling him. “Shh.” Rei's mask faced him as their fingers entwined, pressed against the damp earth. “We have to get closer. It’ll be fine.” He couldn’t help but stare at the curved eyes for a long moment — heart beating in his chest — before, “Miya-san.”

Osamu blinked. What was that?

“Come.” Rei pulled him along — hand warm and firm on his own — as they crouched through the pampas grass closer to the campsite.

A patrolling demon roamed near their hiding spot, his features gnarled and painted crimson red. Rei released his hand to withdraw the two tantos from his thighs. He whistled, faint and low. 

A glance back at Osamu — then Rei leapt.

Two blades to the neck. One slicing thick muscle. One slitting a throat.

Rei’s arms jerked. Punch forward. Pull back.

A guttural groan bubbled from the demon’s body as his head slid off.

Two more demons gathered around the flickering bonfire, unaware of the men hidden in the bushes. In the corner of Osamu’s eye, he could see Rei creeping through the bushes trying to flank a demon sharpening his blade. 

Osamu slid his katana out of its sheath. Rei was far better suited for stealth — his armor was bulkier and blade longer. But he wasn't about to let a fox take all the glory.

Rei pounced on the sharpening demon, sinking a tanto into his shoulder.

Osamu inhaled.

Beat. A horrific cry.

Osamu exhaled.

The other demon had risen, startled by Rei's attack.

Go.

Osamu leapt, heart racing. The demon whirled around. Fangs bared. Growl reverberated.

He slashed with his blade.

Nothing.

The katana dashed against the demon's abdomen. Where Rei had pierced their skin effortlessly, Osamu could merely stare at the bloodless slit in the demon's clothes.

Fuck.

A large, rough hand found Osamu's neck, lifting him off the ground. He gasped — chest, lungs straining — as the demon wrenched the sword from his hand.

He heard a scream. 

Was that him? He couldn’t remember.

_I can’t._

Time slowed to a grinding halt as the demon thrusted the blade. 

“Miya-san!”

_That’s me?_

A growl. Rei. 

A thump. Dead demon.

Osamu’s vision flashed white. Pain.

Somewhere.

_Where?_

“Miya! No!”

His back hit the hard earth. Blurry flashes of white and black. Red.

A gruesome clang of blades. Thump.

Another.

A hand. Gentle. Fingers soft against his cheek.

More pressed against his abdomen. Firm. Pain.

“Osamu?”

Eyes opened. 

A face. Blurry.

“I-I’m here. Stay with me.”

_I know you._

Black.

* * *

“Hngh.” Osamu groaned, struggling to open his heavy eyelids. 

Images flashed inside his mind — a horrifying mouth of gnarled teeth, the slash of a dark blade, an unexpected face. _Who?_

_Who?_

_Who?_

_Wh-_

Osamu opened his eyes. Above him was a strange earthen ceiling — shadows flickering across in a familiar crimson light. To the left side, a wall. Still earthen. Dirt? His chin met his chest as he looked down his body at the far wall. Gnarled tree roots bisected it and a path led upwards into shadow.

There was furniture — an odd, mismatched blend of colors and styles. A kimono hung on a stand — black with white cranes. Familiar. 

_When?_

_Why?_

A sigh slipped from his lips as his head lolled back down against the pillow, fighting to stay awake. His eyes fluttered open again and in the haze saw someone to his right.

His vision focused.

“Rin.” Osamu whispered.

Suna was asleep, head resting against his curled up hands and body rising and falling steadily with every breath. His tangled bangs hung over his face and deep bruise-like circles painted his under eyes. 

“Let me…” 

Osamu tried to shift onto his side.

Sharp.

Pain radiated from his abdomen, sending chilling sensations all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes. He panted, quick and fast as it faded. 

He loosened the cotton kimono he’d been dressed in, eyes meeting the source. A gruesome wound marred his stomach — carefully tied shut with crimson thread and scabbed over. Healing.

His gaze swept back to the sleeping figure of Suna. He reached — carefully this time — to place his fingers on Suna's forehead before running them through a chunk of bang. Gently, he broke apart tangles and snarls, taking care not to pull too hard. 

Once satisfied with his now soft and smooth bangs, Osamu ran his fingers from Suna's hairline back. He didn't make it far before he brushed against something thin and soft and strange.

Suna's hair twitched and his nose scrunched as he stirred. He let out a low and long groan as Osamu continued to run his fingers through his hair. His hands fidgeted as he came to.

Osamu watched as Suna's eyes fluttered open then closed once more. A tiny smile danced on his lips. "Mmm, Osamu."

“Good mornin’, Rin.” Osamu whispered, feeling his fingers brush against the strange piece of hair. It twitched again and quiet realization dawned. He lifted it, running a fingertip along the fluffy edge. An ear. He let it fall back down again and returned to stroking Suna’s hair. 

Another low groan and Suna’s eyes opened, blinking slowly as his pupils focused on Osamu. Even in the red-tinged gloom of the room, he could tell they were a brighter, more vibrant shade than the usual fine jade. 

Suna’s eyes went wide, leaping back as if he’d been burned. Fox ears stood on alert as he frantically grasped his mask — abandoned to the side as he slept. He held it to his face with one hand and reached for Osamu’s forehead with the other. “This is just a dream.”

Osamu grabbed his wrist before it could touch him. Startled, the mask slipped from Suna’s grip and fell to the earthen floor. As he stared into his friend’s terrified eyes, he felt a surge of emotions — fear, calm, joy, anger, relief. It was Suna. This whole time.

He simultaneously had a thousand questions and no thoughts at all drifting around his mind. 

He settled on an easy statement.

“Rin.” Suna flinched, eyes averted. “I like yer ears.”

Said ears relaxed as Suna brought a palm to his eyes. A smile spread across his lips as he huffed out a laugh. “You’re stupid.”

Osamu released his wrist as Suna shifted to kneel beside the futon.

“I’m sorry.” Suna’s hand met his forehead, this time to gently run his fingers through Osamu’s hair and not to magick him to sleep. “I didn’t tell you.”

“How?” Osamu let his eyes drift close to the relaxing touch — giving in to the fatigue that still wracked his body. “Yer father.”

“Found me in the woods as a child.” Suna’s voice was featherlight. “He prayed to the gods for an heir. Inari-sama listened.”

“Ya said you ‘n’ yer father didn’t get on anymore.”

“Airi will inherit the smithy when she is of age. He has no more use for me to be his son.” Osamu opened his eyes as Suna withdrew his hand from his hair to clutch at his dusty hakama. 

“Ya could leave.” 

“I have my reasons to stay.” Suna met his eye, a tiny smile on his lips. “Airi isn’t my flesh and blood, but she’s still my kin. And… well… you. You’re here.”

Something familiar, something warm flashed through Suna’s narrow eyes. The same expression he had every time he was with Osamu, when their fingers brushed and eyes drifted downwards. _He’s in love with me._

Osamu closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the pillow. A tiny flash of pain radiated from his stomach. He can’t love Suna. He can’t. He lied. “Is the village safe?”

“Osamu.” Suna whispered. “It’s gotten worse. Those demons we killed were merely scouts. There was a larger camp even deeper into the woods. I think…” He sighed. “I think our attack enraged them.”

“Yer attack.” Osamu groaned. “I was useless.”

Warmth rushed to his skin as Suna touched his cheek, a calloused thumb gently rubbing circles. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” It was bizarre hearing the normally cocksure, unapologetically confident Suna uttering those words. “My blades are enchanted to cut the flesh of monsters. I didn’t… think to make you one before.”

“It would’ve revealed yer identity.” Osamu said, leaning into the touch.

“You could’ve died.”

“I didn’t.” Osamu watched a tear drip down Suna’s cheek. Another unfamiliar sight. “Thanks to you, I’m sure.”

Suna’s hand shifted to peel open the kimono enough to take a look at the wound. He gently prodded at the crimson thread and the edges of the thick scabbing. “It’s healing nicely. A few more days and you’ll be fine.”

“I was ran through with my katana, Rin. How am I alive?” Osamu had seen criminals get executed by samurai testing new blades — if the criminal survived the initial pierce to the gut, it wasn’t long before death claimed him by other means. If only a few days had passed, he figured he’d be feeling a lot worse than flashes of pain.

“About that...” Fox ears flattened as Suna dipped his head sheepishly. He reached behind him to curl a fluffy tail around his legs, quietly running his fingers through it to unknot tangles. “If you remember, a kitsune’s life force is connected to their tails. The oldest and most powerful of us have nine.”

Osamu exhaled. “Wait.”

“If I live to be that old, I will only ever have eight tails.” Suna smiled, a feral glint in his eye. This expression Osamu recognized — a lack of remorse in his actions. “I sacrificed my second tail, a portion of my power. For you.”

Osamu pushed himself up on his elbows, ignoring the pain that coursed through his body. “Why? Why wouldja do such a thing?”

“I’m in love with you, Osamu.” Suna stared at him, face resolute. “Call me stupid, but I’d do anything for you.”

Osamu knew this. He’d realized it. But, he can’t. He can’t. He can’t. He let his body fall to the futon, heart threatening to beat out of his chest. He can’t.

“I understand.” Suna whispered. “You don’t have to feel the same.”

Fingers met his forehead, accompanied by bonfire warmth.

“You need your rest, Osamu.”

His eyes drifted closed as Suna’s magic sank into his skin. Fingers trailed to cup his jaw again before sleep claimed him once more.

* * *

Osamu kneeled in the corner of the smithy, nibbling at a rice ball. It was perfectly salted — the way he liked it best. He couldn't wait to have a full meal after a week of resting in Suna's fox den and eating only broth, but for now this was enough.

Suna stood at the anvil, one hand clutching a hammer and the other glowing with crimson foxfire. 

They'd returned to the town that morning, masquerading Osamu's sudden disappearance as a trip to Himeji to petition his father for assistance. No one needed to know about the scar on his stomach or the fox ears and tail belonging to his companion.

Suna's apprentices were sent home for the day, so he could get to work in privacy.

Osamu watched in amazement as the smith crafted a wakizashi — metal folded and hammered faster than he'd ever seen. Osamu's katana was made over the course of months by Suna's father, but the kitsune's foxfire and mumbled enchantments made short work of the steel.

Even before being heat-treated and polished, Osamu could see the beautiful dark grey glint of the metal — the same as the enchanted demon-killing blades.

It was fascinating to watch him — both the fine work and the movement of his muscles. His sleeves were tied back, revealing strong biceps that flexed with every hammer. His fingers were slow and careful — glowing red hot — as they trailed over the edge.

Suna sighed, wiping his forehead. Magic or not, the work was taking a toll on him.

"Rest, Rin." 

Suna flashed him a tired smile. "I have to maintain this temperature for a little bit longer." 

The clang of the hammer and the sound of the grindstone echoed throughout the smithy as Suna got back to work.

"Osamu, come here." Suna said, gesturing with his free hand. He kneeled beside a roughhewn work table.

Osamu's sleeve brushed against Suna's as he joined him. The wakizashi was raised above the table alongside a bowl of clay.

"Can I?" Suna whispered, his hand lingering over Osamu's.

He nodded, and Suna grasped his hand, leading it to the bowl of wet clay. A burst of cool met his fingers as they were dipped into the bowl. 

"We have to make the temper line." Suna's voice was soft as they ran the clay over the metal together — him near the tip of the blade and Suna near the tang. "Spread it thin at the sharp edge and thicker near the top."

As they worked, Osamu pondered his situation with every brush of fingers, arms, sleeves.

Suna the smith. He'd been by Osamu's side since he first arrived in Inarizaki. An ear to listen, a shoulder to lean on, a touch to comfort. They'd shared laughs, tears, tender moments that settled in Osamu's gut and throat. Fingers brushing hair out of eyes, thumbs trailing over cheekbones, hands clasping palms.

"What shape do you want your hamon?" Suna said as he slid another bowl — one full of warm water — towards Osamu. He rinsed the clay off his fingers, watching the water swirl into a muddy grey.

"There are options?"

Suna grinned, eyes crinkling as he laughed. "You really don't know how this works, do you?"

He bumped Suna with his shoulder, a smile tugging at his lips. He didn't want to give this up.

"The hamon on your katana is based on the leaves of the clove tree." Suna said, his clay covered fingers drawing the pattern in the air. Osamu couldn't help but notice the spark in Suna's jade eyes. "It's my father's favorite, so it is the Suna family's signature design."

"What about ya?"

"Hm?" Suna tilted his head.

"What is yer favorite?"

"Have you ever been to the shore of Osaka Bay?" Suna wet his hands in the bowl and got to work remoistening the clay on the sword. 

"Once or twice."

"We should go sometime. Just you and me." He plucked a thin metal tool from the table and began etching lines into the clay. "Imagine yourself standing with your feet in the sand."

Osamu's eyes drifted closed. He could see the cobalt blue of the bay stretching under a clear August sky. The water was warm as it lapped at his feet. He heard a laugh — bright and beautiful — as Suna kicked at the waves, soaking the bottom of his hakama.

"Watch the water."

A wave crashed, and webs of white criss-crossed the surge of blue that surrounded his ankles. The sand was freshly wet, a dark curved line.

"You see it?"

Imaginary Suna curled his hand around Osamu's and pointed at the pattern as another wave rolled across the sign. He flashed Osamu a smile — canines sharp and ears relaxed.

"I think so."

"Open your eyes." 

Suna was still etching the clay but Osamu could see the beginning of a detailed design. A strong, curvy edge reminiscent of the wet sand with smaller waves reverberating from the line.

"It's beautiful." 

Suna smiled, wetting his tool. "Just you wait."

"Why is it yer favorite?"

Suna hummed. "It's an old-fashioned pattern inspired by bamboo panels. But I like to think of it as waves. And it brings out a certain effect in the metal."

"Oh?"

"It's called Sunagashi." _Flowing sand._ Suna rinsed his hands once more before dropping the tool into the bowl. He adjusted his position so his back was straight. His palms glowed crimson as they hovered above the blade. "It's perfect for an enchanted blade. As it's not just sand that flows through this blade, but also my power."

Osamu felt his chest tighten — his heart cracking like the hardening clay. Like it too was being tenderly cared for by Suna and forged into something stronger. Jade eyes drifted closed, more enchantments whispered from his lips. 

He's not human.

He can't love him.

Sharp red and black lined the curve of Suna's eyes. Lashes cast shadows along his cheeks. Stray locks of hair fell from his loose ponytail. Lips stopped moving to form their natural neutral frown. Chin tilted up as a final surge of heat burnt the clay. 

_Oh_ , but he does.

The Suna that spent lazy days with him. The Suna that held a blade to his throat. The Suna that shared his laughs and pains. The Suna that fought by his side. The Suna that gave him council. The Suna that sacrificed part of himself to save his life.

The Suna that he loved.

They were one in the same.

Suna rose to his feet and lifted the heated sword in one fell motion, spinning on his heels to plunge the blade into a vat of water. Flames licked up from the surface of the vat as Suna held it in place. 

"I will polish it and find a proper mounting for it after dinner." Suna said as he set the wakizashi back in its holder on the table. "But while we're here, there's one more thing I can add."

A signature in the tang — identifying a blade was made by a certain swordsmith or school — hidden inside the hilt. Most Suna swords bore 角名 涼介, even those crafted by Rintarou.

Osamu smiled. He had an idea.

As he spoke, Suna's face flushed, eyes wide. If he were in his kitsune form, Osamu imagined his ears flattening.

Suna flicked his wrist, summoning crimson two characters. Ten strokes. Ten strokes. As his hand hovered over the tang, Osamu touched his shoulder.

"Put it on the blade." Osamu whispered. "I want to see it."

Suna blinked. "I… understand."

The characters etched into the steel of the blade, just above where the tsuba will fall. 

A promise.

* * *

Osamu felt a smile tug at his cheeks as he watched Suna emerge from the tunnel beneath the biggest maple in the clearing. He was dressed in his sleeveless stealth outfit, tantos strapped to his thighs. A lick of disappointment bit at his heart as he saw the fox mask hiding Suna's sharp features.

"This is better." Suna said, the grin clear in his voice. "You don't look like a samurai anymore."

"Mmm." Osamu hummed, glancing down at his own clothing. He skipped the chest and shoulder armor to be lighter and more flexible. "Didn't exactly help me last time."

"I dread to think how you're gonna explain the massive hole to your father's armorer." 

"Maybe I just won't." Osamu fingered the silk hilt of his new wakizashi. "I ain't Tsumu, I'm not here to be my father's attack dog."

"Clearly you're mine." Suna said dryly.

He laughed. _In more ways than one._

"You ready?" Suna tilted his head. Tonight, they would eradicate the main demon camp. Or they would die trying.

Osamu pulled his wakizashi from its sheath — admiring the wavelike hamon coursing down the metal and the two engraved characters.

Small enough that one wouldn't notice at first glance, but big enough to bring comfort as he ran his fingertips over the engraving.

宮倫

"One thing first." Osamu said, putting the short sword away and meeting the curved eyes of the mask.

Suna was still as Osamu approached.

He hooked a finger beneath the chin of the mask and tilted it to it to reveal Suna’s face. Osamu's other hand glided through brown locks, meeting Suna's glowing gaze with resolve.

"Osamu." Suna whispered, lips parting open in surprise. "What are you doing?"

"Somethin' I've wanted to do for a long time." Osamu gently brushed his fingers against the base of Suna's fox ear. "Jus' never had the guts to do it."

His eyes drifted downward. "If you'll have me, that is."

Suna laughed, eyes crinkling. "You're an idiot, my lord."

Wrinkles formed between his brows as he scrunched his nose in disgust. "Rin, I was havin' a moment."

A final laugh before warmth — in his cheeks, his lips, his chest — as Suna kissed him. Fingers tangled and mask flipped away as Osamu pressed him closer and deeper, chasing the desire he'd felt for ages. 

But had refused to give into. Until now.

"Be careful out there, Osamu." Suna murmured into his mouth. "I won't be able to bring you back this time."

"I love ya, too." Osamu pressed a final gentle kiss to the corner of Suna's lips.

Suna slid the mask back on, probably trying to conceal the flush flooding his cheeks. "That's not what I said."

"Mhm." Osamu flashed a final smile. "Sure, it wasn't."

Fingers found each other in the darkness as they stood shoulder to shoulder facing the unknown.

Suna's grip tightened, thumb brushing gently over his skin.

Reassurance.

"I'm ready."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Twitter [@andraste_](https://twitter.com/andraste_/status/1357344789063077894)


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